IN DISGRACE
Anthony Tidball confronted Jack with a pewter spoon in one hand and a
small tin coffee-pot in the other. He was in his shirt-sleeves and a
bath-towel was fastened around his neck, descending in wispy folds to
his knees. On one end of the study table a second towel was laid, and
upon it rested a plate of bread, a jar of preserves, a wedge of cheese,
a can of condensed milk, a bowl of sugar, and cellars containing salt
and pepper. Besides these Jack saw a plate appropriately surrounded by
knife, fork, and spoon, and flanked by a cup and saucer. There was a
perceptible, and not ungrateful, odor of cooking present. Anthony waved
the coffee-pot hospitably, but carefully, toward the rocking-chair.
[Illustration: Anthony waved the coffee-pot hospitably.]
“Hello, Weatherby,” he said. “Sit down.”
“Wha--what are you doing?” gasped Jack.
“Cooking supper. Have some? You’re just in time.” He took the towel
from his neck and, going to the gas-stove, used it to remove a
pie-plate from above a tiny frying-pan.
“Supper?” echoed Jack. “Do you mean that you--cook your own meals?”
“Yes,” responded Anthony, calmly. He approached the table with the pan,
and from it dexterously transferred six small sausages on to the empty
plate. Then he put a spoonful of milk and two spoonsful of sugar into
the bottom of the cup and filled it to the brim with steaming and very
fragrant coffee. “Yes, I’ve been my own chef,” he continued, “ever
since I came here. When Gooch and I were together it was a good deal
simpler. I got breakfast and he got supper; our lunches were just cold
things. You see, Weatherby, we’re poor folks, and I couldn’t stay in
college three months if I had to pay four dollars a week for meals. As
it is, it’s a close haul sometimes.”
“Everything looks very nice,” murmured Jack, taking the chair and
observing the proceedings with frank curiosity.
“Well, if you don’t object, I’ll just begin operations while things are
hot,” said Anthony. He tucked a corner of the bath-towel under his chin
and began his repast. “There’s nothing sinful in poverty, they say,
and of course they’re right; but it’s pretty hard sometimes not to be
ashamed of it. I don’t tell every one that I cook my meals in my room.
It wouldn’t do. But you were certain to find it out sooner or later,
and it might as well be sooner. I say, would you mind turning off the
gas over there? Thanks.”
“Do you mean that you can save money this way?” asked Jack as he sat
down again.
“You better believe it. When Gooch and I kept house together our food
cost us about one dollar and five cents apiece every week. I guess now
it’ll cost me nearer two dollars.”
“But even then you’re saving two dollars by not going to a
boarding-house,” said Jack reassuringly.
“Yes, I know,” replied Anthony, as he started on his second sausage,
“but four dollars a week is my limit. And I’m paying more for this room
than I did for my half of the other one. I guess I’ll have to retrench
a while. Dad pays my tuition and I look after the rest myself. I earn
enough in the summer taking out fishing parties and the like of that to
last me. Last summer was a poor season, though; fish wouldn’t bite and
folks wouldn’t go out with me. However, I got a scholarship, and that
helped some. But I’m sailing a good deal nearer the wind than I did
last year. And next week I’ve got to go over to Robinson, and I guess
that will just about bankrupt me for a while.”
“What are you going there for?” Jack inquired.
“Debate.”
“Of course!” cried the other. “I remember now! I couldn’t think where
I’d heard your name. Why, you’re the president of the Lyceum, aren’t
you? and the crack debater? The fellow who won for Erskine last year
when every one expected to be beaten?”
“Well, something of that sort,” replied the junior. “Anyhow, I’ve got
to go to Robinson next week. If we’re defeated after I’ve gone and paid
five dollars and eighty cents in railroad fares----!”
Words failed him and he finished the last of the sausages with a woful
shake of his head.
“What are our chances?” asked Jack.
“About the same as last year, I guess. We may and we mayn’t. Robinson’s
got a fellow, named Heath, this year that’s a wonder, they say. We’ve
lost Browning and Soule, and that leaves us sort of weak.”
“I’d like to go,” said Jack, “but I don’t believe I could afford it.”
“Wish you could,” Anthony responded heartily. “We need all the support
we can get. If it was a football game, now, I guess the whole college
would go along. As it is, I suppose we’ll have about two dozen beside
the speakers. Did you ever try condensed milk with raspberry jam?”
Jack had to acknowledge that he never had.
“It’s right good,” said Anthony, spreading a generous spoonful of the
mixture on a slice of bread. “If you kind of shut your eyes and don’t
think about it the condensed milk tastes like thick cream.”
Jack watched in silence a moment. Then--
“I took your advice,” he announced.
“Saw Perkins, you mean? What did he say?”
“Said it was all right; said he was glad to have me.”
“That’s good.”
“And I met Professor White in the yard.”
“What happened?” asked Anthony, turning his lean, spectacled face
toward the other in evident interest. Jack recounted the conversation
and Anthony grinned.
“Pretty cheeky, though, weren’t you?”
“I suppose I was,” Jack acknowledged. “But I don’t care; he had no
business saying I was boorish. He--he’s a cad!”
“Easy there! Don’t call names, Weatherby; it’s a mean way to fight.
White’s not as bad as he seems to you. He’s made a mistake and when he
discovers the fact he’ll be the first to acknowledge it. You’ll see.”
Anthony produced his brier pipe and began to smoke.
“Bother you much to-day, did they?” he asked.
“Some. I can stand it, I suppose.”
“They’ll get tired pretty soon and forget it,” said the other kindly.
“Keep your hand on the tiller, take a couple of reefs in your temper,
and watch out. There’s your supper bell.”
“Yes, I must wash up. Are you going to be busy to-night?”
“Not to hurt. Come in and bring your knitting.”
“I will,” said Jack gratefully.
The growing friendship with the new lodger was the one bright feature
in Jack’s existence at this time, and during the next few weeks he
frequently found himself viewing with something that was almost
equanimity the occurrence at the river and its results, since among
the latter was his acquaintance with Anthony Tidball. Anthony had
hosts of acquaintances, but few friends; friends, he declared, were
too expensive. But he adopted Jack during the first week of their
acquaintance, and at once became guardian, mentor, and big brother all
rolled into one. Jack went to him with his troubles--and he had a good
many in those days--and listened to his advice, and generally acted
upon it. It was a new and delightful experience to the younger boy to
have a chum, and he made the most of it, resorting to Anthony’s room
whenever he wanted society, and interrupting the junior’s studying in
a way that would have summoned a remonstrance from any one save the
good-hearted victim. Anthony always laid aside his books and pens,
filled his pipe, took one foot into his lap, and listened or talked
with unfailing good nature. And after Jack had taken himself off,
Anthony would discard his pipe and buckle down to work in a mighty
effort to make up for lost time, not infrequently sitting with the
gas-stove between his knees long after the village clock had struck
twelve, and every one else in the house was fast asleep.
Sometimes they took walks together, for both were fond of being
outdoors, and it became a common thing to see the tall, awkward junior
striding alongside the freshman and leaning down near-sightedly to
catch his words. For a while the college world wondered and exclaimed.
Tidball was a person of vast importance, a queer, quiet, serious sort
of fellow, but a master at study and debate, a man whose counsels were
asked for and hearkened to with deep respect, and in general opinion
a person who would be heard from in no uncertain way in the future.
Hence, when the college saw that Tidball had taken up Weatherby, the
college began to suspect that it had very possibly been overhasty
in its judgment of the latter youth. Indications of this began to be
apparent even to Jack; fellows were less uneasy when lack of other
seats made it necessary for them to sit beside him at Chapel or at
recitations; several times he was greeted by name, rather shamefacedly
to be sure, by members of his own class; and baseball practise became
less of an ordeal for him, since the candidates generally showed a
disposition to recognize his existence and speak him fair. But if
these condescending ones looked for evidences of gratitude from Jack
they were doomed to disappointment. He returned greetings politely but
without cordiality, and made not the least move toward grasping the
hand of fellowship so hesitatingly and doubtingly advanced.
“If I was not good enough to associate with before,” he told himself,
“I’m no better now, merely because one man of prominence walks across
the yard with me.”
He had never accepted Joe Perkins’s invitation to call. He was grateful
to the captain for the friendliness the latter had shown him, and
continued to show him on every occasion. But Perkins believed him a
coward, just as the others did. Joe repeated his invitation twice and
then gave it up. Yet the more he saw of Jack the more he was inclined
to doubt the fairness of the general verdict, and so, in spite of
duties that took up practically every minute of his waking hours,
he found time to write a letter to his cousin, Billy Cromwell, in
Auburn. Eventually he received a reply. There were eight sheets of it
altogether, as was natural, considering that Billy hadn’t written to
Joe previously for something over six months, but only a small portion
of the epistle is of interest here.
“I know Jack Weatherby very well [Billy wrote]. His folks and mine are
old acquaintances. His father has a farm near here, but never has done
very well with it, I believe. You know what some of our farms hereabout
are; the Weatherby place is like them, only more so. Jack’s a smart,
plucky youngster; a good sort all through. If you can help him along
you’ll be doing me a favor. And I think you’ll like him if you know
him better. And if you can get him on to the nine you’ll be doing well
for the nine, I promise you. Jack’s one of those dependable chaps that
you meet about once in a thousand years; if he says he’ll knock out a
two-bagger, he’ll do it. And he isn’t afraid of work or anything else.
That’s about all, I think. You said you wanted to know all I could tell
you about Jack, and I think I’ve told it. Remember me to him when you
see him.”
Joe folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.
“I never knew Billy to get taken in by any one yet,” he said to
himself, “and so I fancy we’ve sized up young Weatherby all wrong. I’ll
have another talk with him. Only--how to get hold of him?”